Stephen Deas - Warlock's shadow

The Maze spat him back out onto the Avenue of Emperors and the docks, always busy and never mind the hour. He slipped in among the teamsters and the sailors there, across to the other side, towards the Kingsway, around the warehouse where the archer had been on the day Kol had told them about Kasmin. He passed the old watchtower and then slid back into the dark streets between the Kingsway and the Avenue of Emperors until he reached the back yard of the Two Cranes. There were snuffers down on the street, watching the back gates, so he climbed up onto the rooftops next door and jumped straight over their heads onto the roof of the stable block. From there it was easy enough to get up onto the roof of the Two Cranes itself. He slithered on his belly, slow and silent — underneath his feet, the attic of the Two Cranes was where the servants slept and if they heard a noise they’d surely raise the alarm. He waited, peering over the edge of the roof, watching the front doors, breathing slowly and steadily. Did the sword-monks still come, watching out for Master Sy? He didn’t know. He scanned the shadows around the entrance but he didn’t see any of them.

He’d been there for ten minutes when the thief-taker finally arrived. He came on his own and he walked straight past the entrance and the snuffers there, round towards the back gate. Berren crept back up the roof in time to see the thief-taker stop by the two snuffers guarding the yard. A purse changed hands. The snuffers opened the gate and moved aside and then the thief-taker was moving swiftly across the open space behind the inn. He went straight for the stables. His sword was drawn, naked in his hand.

Carefully, Berren crossed the roof and slid down the other side. As he dropped onto the stable roof, he heard a muffled crash and a strangled cry. Alive with the moment, he lay down, very slowly pried back one of the roof tiles and peered inside.

‘Get in!’

There was a crash, the sound of someone being hurled across the room and then of wood splintering and Master Sy swearing. Then footfalls. A horse snorted. Berren heard a quiet splash of water, more quiet footsteps, then a loud one. There was some spluttering. He couldn’t see anything. There were no lights inside the stables. He wrinkled his nose — even though there was almost no wind, the city stink of rotting fish was uncommonly bad all of a sudden.

‘Kelm’s Teeth! Who’d have thought that a life of rape and murder could leave a man so fat?’

That was Master Sy’s voice. There was another, one he didn’t know, the whispering voice from before, but then there was a coughing and a third, gulping, gasping for air.

‘You!’ The Headsman.

The realisation broke whatever spell was freezing Berren still. He needed to be closer. Gently, he slipped across the roof to a little shuttered window that opened into the stable attic. The shutters were loose. He pried them slowly apart, and then whipped one open and dropped inside, into the hayloft.

‘What was that?’ The voices down below fell quiet. All that separated Berren from the men below was a thin layer of creaky wooden boards and he had no idea which ones might squeak and which ones wouldn’t. He lowered himself down, lay flat and pressed his ear to the floor, sweating and shaking. One whisper of noise and the thief-taker would know he was there, and then … Whatever the and then was, he didn’t want to know.

‘Noises in the wind, Syannis. Ghosts and night-creepers, nothing more,’ said the whispery voice.

More footsteps. ‘You have a choice,’ said Master Sy, as amiably as if he was commenting on the weather. ‘Your life ends tonight, either way. I can do it quickly or I can linger. I’d like to linger. I’ve a decade of lingering to catch up on. So please, don’t tell me who in Deephaven is a part of this. Let me take my time over you.’

‘Time is dripping by, Syannis,’ said the other voice. ‘Wasting.’ It was brittle, like old dry paper rustling in a breeze. ‘Take his head and be done with it.’

‘Treacherous necromancer!’ The Headsman again. ‘Cut me loose, bastard. We’ll settle this the old way.’

‘See?’ Master Sy snorted. ‘Saffran wants to do it his way. That would be quickest and we’d know the answer, but I want to see your face. I want to see your pain. I want to see it wrenched out of you as though I was tearing out your heart. So why are you here? Weren’t Tethis and Kalda enough?’

Saffran? Saffran Kuy? The witch-doctor?

‘Deephaven is not Tethis, Syannis.’ The whispery voice sounded bored. Perhaps a touch impatient, but only insofar as it had better things it could be doing.

‘Yes! So they would have accomplices within the city!’

‘Armies would march from the fortresses around Varr, vast and fast, and how would we stop them, eh? The Emperor would smash us flat rather than lose us. Crush and rend us to ash and sand. How would you stop such a fate?’

Someone lit a lamp. Pale orange light flickered. Berren moved his head and put an eye to a crack in the floor. He could see the top of Master Sy’s head, slowly shaking, but he couldn’t see anyone else. He could smell something, though. The smell of dead fish, even worse than it had been outside; stronger and richer, almost deep enough to make him retch.

‘I want to hear it from him while he lives!’ Master Sy moved out of sight, and then the familiar sound of fists pounding flesh began. Berren winced. He’d heard that too many times before, back when he’d been with Master Hatchet. ‘This bloated turd has no more power than the Overlord here holds in his little finger! He’s a foot soldier. Foot soldiers advance and die, sacrificed to save more potent pieces. I want to know who the Dragon is.’ The edge to Master Sy’s voice set flies fluttering in Berren’s stomach — it was like steel being sharpened on a whetstone. He wriggled back and forth so he could either see the top of Master Sy’s head again, or an occasional glimpse of the Headsman, sprawled against the wall. All he saw of the witch-doctor was a fleeting shadow.

The Headsman spat. ‘Get on with it, bastard. You won’t get out of here alive! Every snuffer here is mine. And even if you kill me, Radek is coming. When he does, it’ll be the end of you!’

The thief-taker spat right back at him. ‘Yes, I know Radek is coming. I delight in knowing that. In fact, the only reason I waited so long for this was to make sure, certain beyond any possible doubt, that Radek will be coming. Believe me, I’ll be sharpening my sword every day in anticipation. All I need to know is when.’ There was a pause, but whatever happened, Berren couldn’t see. ‘Yes, you overfed leech, I’ve been watching you for weeks. You have no idea how hard it was to wait. I know you murdered Kasmin.’

A harsh laugh. ‘Kasmin was a thief and a liar.’

‘He was a fine man once.’ Master Sy’s voice was flat.

‘He was a killer and a drunkard. Putting him down was a mercy. Do you want to know how we found him?’

Everything went silent. Berren listened to his heart, pounding so hard it seemed that everyone must hear it. Then a crash shook the stables. The door flew open, kicked almost off its hinges by some heavy boot. Berren wriggled frantically, trying to see. Master Sy was moving. At least three more people had come in. More than that, Berren couldn’t tell.

‘The warlock!’ a new voice called. ‘Get the-’ There was a crash. The lamplight died. Steel rang on steel. Berren heard a gasp, a shout, abruptly cut short, and then a screaming that went on and on, a screaming the likes of which he’d never heard. It was a keening, wailing cry of anguish and terror and dread and it ran through Berren and pinned him to the floor. Other noises pierced it: a crash, another crash, a shout, the smash of something thrown against a wall. But over the top, the constant howl held Berren fast. It took him a moment to realise that the noise was even human. It was the scream of something worse than death. He clamped his hands over his ears but even that didn’t help.